Fire and Ice and Life at Winter's Pace

Relearning what it means to rest

With devastating fires in L.A., once-in-a-lifetime blizzards in the American South, the bitter cold of a polar vortex in the Midwest, and the return of Donald Trump to the White House, 2025 has gotten off to a memorable start. This morning our windchill was at -22 and we’re on the third of four days of winter storm warnings that have meant snow days and exam delays for my son. I haven’t been outside since Sunday.

Oddly enough, through it all I have been seeking (and finding) quiet. I have been reading again, which I haven’t had much time for beyond research for the past several years. I’ve been getting a little writing done.

I’m living life at winter’s pace. Slow down. Press gently on the brakes. Leave extra room between you and the person in front of you.

I am not striving.

I’m listening.

I’m taking notes.

I’m cuddling with my dog.

I’m trying to hang onto the commitment I made to myself to say no, to do less, to focus on what really and truly matters to me right now.

It’s hard. Sometimes I still find myself blank and unmotivated to do even leisure activities. I think about all the times people have said to me, “I don’t know how you do everything you do,” and I wonder if I have already spent all of the energy allotted to me and I should have paced myself a bit better.

I come to realize that, beyond the emotionally draining anxiety and grief of the past few years of losing my father and my father-in-law, I am simply burned out. After years of tending a thousand little fires and trying to keep it all going and growing I am so very tired. I make it my intention to slow down, to step back. I let the fires go out and watch the snow fall and allow myself to dream about “free time.”

And then I win an award that will mean I have to schedule speaking events anyway.

I am asked to help someone with an incredible story and testimony write the book he wants to share but isn’t able to write.

I find out that I have to go on a work trip the week after I’m going to be out of town for a writing retreat.

And I watch the white space on my calendar fill up with things I hadn’t planned, but that I’m also happy with, grateful for, excited about.

Still, all I really want to do right now is read and eat and watch movies with my guys. That’s it. Nothing else. I want to disappear into my snowy home, into my family, under a blanket with my little spazzy dog and a hot cup of tea and a book that’s been on my TBR pile for years.

I don’t want to be clever. I don’t want to have opinions. I don’t want to figure out solutions. I don’t want to be part of something bigger. I don’t want to check off the tasks I’ve accomplished.

I just want to rest. I just want to disappear.

I just want to have the Sabbath year I have been craving.

And I wonder if I should post any of this or delete it all right now, because even the thought of receiving your warm and encouraging thoughts in response makes me

so

very

tired.

So I’m turning comments off. And I’m asking you not to respond to this at all. In any way. No emails. No messages on social media. No texts if you know my number. Just think of me as someone who is trying to take a nap, whom you would only disturb if the house was on fire.

I’ll be fine. I promise.

I just need some time alone.